Chapter Seven

“Markham, what brings you to our door on this lovely autumn day?"

"Afternoon, Anne." Hat in hand, Markham peeked over Anne's shoulder. "I was hoping Rory might be home."

Saving her niece further discomfort, Rory brushed past Anne and forced a smile. "Hey Markham, nice of you to stop by. Do come in; Anne made a pot of tea or would you prefer coffee?"

With a nod, he wiggled past Anne and delivered a broad smile to Rory. "Tea will do, thank you."

Rory hadn't seen Markham since the day she married Dawson. Prior to that, the man had made several attempts to court her, but Rory never knew they had little in common. Even Isabelle would agree people who intended to spend their entire lives together should have similar interests. Particularly if love was missing from the equation. Markham was a kind, decent man, despite his effeminate nature, and everyone knew he made a decent living managing the lumber mill in town. But how did one go from wild, passionate love to mediocre acceptance of one's mate? As with many dilemmas these days, Rory didn't have the answer, but was determined to stop Markham' advances before they began.

"Pull up a chair, Markham, and do tell me about all the news in town. How's your family and what's happening at the lumber yard?"

"Ma and Pa are fine, a little older but aren't we all?"

Rory clucked her cheek. "Cannot argue with you there."

"We've never been busier at the mill. Seems as if everyone raised a barn, built a new block house or fenced their pastures last summer. Lumber going out the door faster than we can fill the orders."

"I thought with the war going on—"

"No one had money to build structures." Markham nodded. "I suppose that's true in the South, but here, where there is no fighting, life goes on. It must," he added as if an afterthought. Lifting the cup to his lips, he took a sip and paused before he spoke. "I'm sorry about Dawson. I shoulda come sooner, but figured you weren't ready."

"You're right. Three months isn't long enough to accept everything that's happened."

"Maybe not, but winter is here, Rory. You have to think about that and what's best for you and the child."

"I won't be alone. Anne and Aaron are staying until spring."

"How old is your nephew now, twelve?"

"Fourteen and he's been an immense help around here." Rory looked away from the man's fixed stare. "A couple of milk cows and a handful of horses aren't going to do us in."

"I could come by now and then, see if Aaron needs some help mending fences, securing that barn before a real blizzard sets in."

Rory grappled for words, and finally eked them out. "What do you hope to gain in return; perhaps we should talk about that?"

"Nothing you're not ready to give." Another pause. "I make a decent living, Rory. You and the girl wouldn't be any trouble."

Rory put a hand in the air. "I still love him, Markham. Don't know if that will ever change. It's too soon to think—"

"I'm not asking for a commitment, just putting the offer out there. You know I've always had a soft spot for you in my heart. Nothing's changed." He heaved a sigh. "I'm asking you to think about my offer, that's all."

Mentally depleted, her heart bursting with pain, and missing Dawson more than she ever thought possible, she offered a meek nod. "No promises, other than I'll think about it."

Markham's chair squealed when he pushed from the table and found his feet. "That's all I ask for now." After plopping his hat onto his head, he nodded. "Tell Aaron I'll drop by in the next couple of days. He should make a list of what needs to be done."

Rory stood and followed him to the door. Before he left, she tugged his elbow and he turned to face her. "Thank you for stopping in. I'm horrible company these days but perhaps in time—"

"Time heals everything they say."

Rory doubted time would change the vast emptiness claiming her, but couldn't begin to explain her desolation to Markham. "Perhaps," she managed before he pulled the door open and closed it behind him.

* * *

Rory had little time that afternoon to ponder her discussion with Markham. Aaron needed help preparing the pastures and cleaning the barn before the cold winds blew. Pitchfork in hand, she joined him in the barn to lay down extra hay for the animals and then helped sweep the cobwebs from the rafters. Her brother-in-law, Jon, would arrive tomorrow to help Aaron with any other remaining tasks, and Rory had to admit, she’d welcome the man with open arms.

Deep in thought about the candles they had yet to make, and the meat waiting to be smoked, salted or dried before long, Rory didn't hear their second visitor of the day arrive.

When Aaron called out to her and pointed, she followed the direction of his finger. "Looks like a letter might have arrived for you."

Rory laid the scythe on the ground and walked to the front porch. "Morning Mister Hardy."

The man smiled and handed her an envelope. "Hope you're faring well, Rory. Thought I'd deliver this myself so you know it arrived."

She glanced at her nephew Clark's name in the upper left-hand corner. Closure. I need some type of closure. After thanking Mister Hardy and sending him on his way, Rory navigated the porch steps, settled into a chair at the kitchen table and opened the envelope.

Dearest Rory:

I don't know when you'll receive this letter, if at all. I penned it several times, hoping to find the right words to comfort you, knowing how shallow they must seem on the page.

I wasn't with Dawson when he fell, but watched through a field glass with a stone in the pit of my stomach. I want you to know he loved you with all his heart. There should be no doubt about that in your mind. Dawson was one of a kind, and to say we'll all miss him would be a grave misstatement.

We're far into Dakota Territory now in pursuit of the Sioux. I don't know how this will end or when I'll return, but please convey my deepest affection to Ma, Pa and the others. I'll post again at the first opportunity,

Until then, I remain, your faithful nephew, Clark

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she clutched the letter to her chest. Hope reared its head. Clark didn't say he was dead. He said he saw him fall. Even the army didn't claim he was dead, but missing in action and presumed dead. On shaky legs, she pushed from the table and returned to the trunk she visited that morning. Rifling past Dawson's clothing, she came upon the official letter and scanned the indelible lines. 'The army regrets we were unable to recover your husband's remains'.

Her mind reeled. Isabelle had warned her about harboring false hope, insisting the army didn't make mistakes when it came to official business. On more than one occasion she had implored Jon and Isabelle to listen to her. Of course, the dreams haunting her sleep fueled the nagging thoughts that something was amiss. Enveloped in a white mist, Dawson ambled forward, her name on his lips, Rory . . . Rory, I'm still here, my love.

Anne wandered into the kitchen with Haven in her arms. "Rory? Everything all right?"

"Hmm? Yes, I was thinking, that's all." She reached for her daughter and snuggled her against her bosom. "Would you ask Aaron to saddle Charmer for me?"

"You know I will, but where are you off to?"

"Thought I'd ride over to your house. I need to speak to your parents."

Anne nodded toward the table. "Is that another letter from the army about Dawson?"

"No, it's from your brother. He sends his love." Distracted by her thoughts, she changed the subject. "Would you mind keeping an eye on Haven for a short time?"

"Of course not." Anne scurried toward the door. "I'll ask Aaron to saddle the horse and be right back."